EPISTLES.
TO THE
EARL OF PETERBOROUGH,
His Juno barren, in unfruitful joys
Our Britiſh Jove his nuptial hours employs:
So Fate ordains, that all our hopes may be,
And all our proſpect, gallant York! in thee.
By the ſame wish aſpiring queens are led,5
Each languiſhing, to mount his royal bed;
His youth, his wiſdom, and his early fame,
Create in ev’ry breaſt a rival flame:
Remoteſt kings ſit trembling on their thrones,
As if no diſtance could ſecure their crowns;10
Fearing his valour, wiſely they contend
To bribe with beauty ſo renown’d a friend:
Beauty the price, there need no other arts;
Love is the ſureſt bait for heroes’ hearts;
Nor can the fair conceal as high concern15
To ſee the prince for whom, unſeen, they burn.
Brave York! attending to the gen’ral voice,
At length reſolves to make the wiſh’d-for choice;
